


peach blossom plucked

by skaralding



Category: Original Work
Genre: Chikan, Coercion, F/F, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion, Steampunk, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-06 19:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skaralding/pseuds/skaralding
Summary: Endure,Zaya thought again, desperately, but couldn’t maintain her calm face for long.





	peach blossom plucked

**Author's Note:**

> Posted as sidewaysish fill for [this prompt](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/344797.html?thread=2004636381#cmt2004636381) on FFA's post 1000 kinkfest. Chikan with a tasty noncon finish.

The worst thing about it was, Zaya _knew_ her. Knew whose hands were plundering her, once she struggled into a good enough position to see. Smooth, medium-brown skin, thick fingers, slightly calloused in a way that indicated an experienced swordswoman.

The omnibus swayed, bringing her assailant’s form even closer. Zaya whimpered, then choked, feeling those impertinent hands start to make the inching journey from her arse to her front.

There was no way to escape. It wasn’t yet dark outside, but heading on close enough that way, and it was still a ways from the next stop, and even if Zaya could wriggle away fast enough to duck off, she wasn’t certain she wouldn’t be followed.

She didn’t know her assailant’s name. It was simply that, going back and forth between home and the bakery, Zaya had seen her enough times that her tall, hulking form had become familiar. Once, Zaya had been pressed against her in the going-home crush, almost exactly like this, and the other woman had been scrupulously polite, had even shielded Zaya’s short, plump frame from the rest of the crowd without so much as a word.

Back then, Zaya had flushed, and only dared to look up once or twice, stealing admiring glances at her benefactor’s sharp jawline. She’d sighed to herself about how some women had all the luck, born blessed with sharp looks and strong bodies and swift sword hands, and after she disembarked, she had thought nothing of the matter.

If only she’d known.

Gritting her teeth, Zaya bore with the smooth, encroaching creep of those hands up her sides, not flinching when she felt them reach up and cover her breasts. She was a waitress on the weekends, after all; being pinched and teased by rough, loud-voiced soldiers of every gender and size was nothing to her. Perhaps if she was silent, and gave no encouragement either way, the matter would end here.

“What,” the woman behind her said, her low, eager tone dispelling Zaya’s hopes, “you’re this small?” And then she squeezed, and squeezed again, her fingers groping Zaya’s breasts through the thick cloth of her jacket, clearly trying to search out her nipples. “Your sweet scent makes up for it, of course.”

The omnibus lurched, and Zaya, stumbling, struggled to use that opportunity to edge away, only to be caught by the waist, turned around and pinned right next to the wall, a scant few inches from the door mechanism.

“Good catch,” someone else said, approvingly. “This bit of Callum lane’s always so rough. Miss, aren’t you thankful?”

Zaya, pinned solidly by her supposed rescuer’s tall, muscled frame, could not even bear to look up. Now, with the two of them facing each other, and under some scrutiny, the other woman had withdrawn her teasing hands from Zaya’s chest, but only so far; while her right arm steadied Zaya, chastely as anything, her left…

Her left arm was right between Zaya’s thighs, forced there, moving rhythmically up and down. Zaya, cursing under her breath, wished desperately that she hadn’t chosen this day of all days to wear her smart new pantaloons. A skirt and petticoat would at least obstruct this– this bold exploration, this _defilement_ –

The omnibus rattled around them, drowning out the bored discussions of other passengers. The woman, her full lips parted, her expression avid, persisted in abusing Zaya. She found a way to insert her bare hand down the front of Zaya’s pantaloons, and then she sought a way into Zaya’s drawers, and her forceful actions and her strength made the conclusion inevitable.

“Harley street,” the conductor cried. “All for Harley street, Harley.” But Zaya could not move, could not so much as make a peep, for the woman had just slid two thick fingers inside her.

If they were to part– if Zaya were to call out– it would be _seen_.

“Don’t cry,” the woman said, as the omnibus roared back into motion, her fingers curling inside Zaya, tormenting her. “I’ll send you straight home, after. Dally with me a bit, and I’ll weigh you down with two imperials, how’s that?”

“I’m not your whore,” Zaya tried to say, but the smooth movement of those devilish fingers and the sway of the bus mangled her words, and all that came out instead was: “I’m… not…”

“You’ll like it,” the woman said, confidently. “Don’t you already?”

“I don’t,” Zaya tried to insist, but again the damned omnibus prevented her. She could only endure, pinned down, fingered, pinched, over and over, until she could no longer ignore the feel her own juices slicking up the fingers inside her.

“Come on,” the woman said, her voice low and hot. “This is is us, now.” And she extracted her sticky hand from Zaya’s pantaloons, and towed Zaya off the bus the moment it stopped, lifting Zaya’s trembling form nearly off her feet. “Come on, then.”

Shaking, halfway to lost a few stops from her usual one, Zaya still took a moment to plant her feet and try desperately to resist. But one swift, terrified glance around her was enough to quell her feeble hopes of getting away. This wasn’t Zaya’s shabby, quiet neighbourhood; pubs lined the other side of the street, doing brisk business with all colours and creeds of people, and it was just late enough that it was starting to be rowdy.

Worse, the woman’s over-familiar attitude with her– her arm still tight around Zaya’s waist, and her confident, insinuating smile– painted Zaya as just the type of girl that’d attract unwanted attention, here.

“What’s that?” a tall, wide-shouldered man was already saying, stirring from his slumped position against the omnibus stop-pole. “Is that big old knife-hand bothering you, dove?” From the way he was leering at Zaya, if she said yes, _he’d_ be bothering her, next. “D’you want a hand getting shot of her? Old Ivan can–”

“D’you want to lose that hand?” the woman inquired, and that casual, smiling question was enough to make Old Ivan retreat, grumbling loudly to himself about how he was only trying to help a fair lady in need, and there was no cause to go threatening a body. “Come on, dearie.”

Hating her, Zaya ducked her head and went along, half-led, half-dragged all the way across the street, to one of the slightly better-looking pubs. The woman led her to the side door with a slow, steady stride, steering around the occasional drunk with the ease of long practice, and the carelessness of someone in their element.

The side door opened with a softly spoken cantrip and a casual tap from the woman’s hand. It led directly to a landing and a walled-in stair; the woman urged her up, and up, and only stopped again at the third floor, opening the door with cantrip and touch again.

The pub’s upper corridor was thankfully deserted, bare of witnesses to Zaya’s impending shame. She followed along, her chest tight with fear, her mind whirling with self-recrimination. If she’d only been more forthright, earlier, and braved the kind of stares she’d have got crying for rescue on an omnibus, this wouldn’t be happening.

But she’d been too shocked, too embarrassed to say anything, and so she could only let the woman shove her into a small empty room, and press her down onto the bed nearly as soon as the door was shut behind them. “Virgin, are you?” the woman said, her voice thick. “I’ll make it sweet for you, don’t worry.”

Zaya stared up at her through angry tears. She’d thought of saying something now, defiantly, declaring her utter disgust, but one look at the woman’s cool, knowing gaze and cheerful smile decided her against it. She could all too easily imagine the woman saying, in response to Zaya vehement announcement that she didn’t want any of this, ‘oh? Leave, then,’ and turning her out the door.

_Endure it,_ Zaya told herself, and so looked on with stony, hard-fought calm as the woman unbuttoned Zaya’s jacket and tugged her shirt up out of her pantaloons. All too soon, her brassiere was exposed, and the woman was bending in to press hot, licking kisses there.

_Endure,_ Zaya thought again, desperately, but couldn’t maintain her calm face for long. She heard herself sob, feeling the woman’s lips teasing her hardened nipples through the thin silk of the brassiere, and though she tried to bite her tongue and keep the sounds back, it didn’t work.

Zaya gave up when the woman slid three fingers down her front again, down past the unbuttoned fly of her pantaloons. The fingers didn’t even enter; the woman seemed utterly content just to stroke, to slide against the slick lips of Zaya’s entrance.

“More?”

Zaya bit her lip, refusing to answer. In response, the woman dragged down the cups of her brassiere and bit her. “No! Don’t– ohh–” She couldn’t help but shiver when the woman’s wet tongue soothed her aching nipple. “I don’t know why you even bother asking.”

“Don’t you?” The woman was smiling now, a cold, fierce light in her eyes. “It’s only that, well, even though I know I can do anything I please to you,” and her palm rubbed right against Zaya, the sweet, sudden pressure making her give way to a stifled moan, “I find I’d like to hear what you think of it.”

Zaya closed her eyes, half to suppress her stinging tears, and half because she could no longer bear looking at the woman’s smug expression. In the back of her mind, she’d thought this was just– she’d thought the woman just a bit of a pervert, the kind of intemperate, inconsiderate person to hope for much and misconstrue even the slightest smile. She’d blamed herself for not speaking up, for not even trying to set things straight.

Now, though…

“Ever since I saw you on that bus,” the woman said, shifting up, her hard, still-clothed body covering Zaya’s completely, “I knew I had to have you. I knew I wanted to taste your sweet little cunt.”

Zaya, feeling the woman’s breath against her cheek, fought to keep her head turned, but the woman’s hand came up and forced Zaya to turn back with an iron grip on her jaw.

“Open your mouth to me,” the woman said, that fierce light in her eyes, and Zaya could do nothing more than obey, afraid of what would happen if she didn’t. The woman’s mouth was warm and wet and aggressive. Her tongue licked into Zaya’s mouth, tasting vaguely of mint, and her other hand continued its bold caresses between Zaya’s legs. “Tell me you want my fingers in you.”

“I… I want them… I want you in me.”

“Open your eyes,” the woman said, mercilessly. “Look at me while you say it.”

Zaya’s breaths came faster and faster, half from fear, half from– she didn’t want to admit it. It was all she could do to keep still, against the slick, skillful press of the woman’s fingers. They weren’t yet inside her, she was still pinching, dipping, teasing… it was unbearable.

“Say it!”

“I…!”

“Look at me.”

Zaya forced herself to open her teary eyes, but couldn’t manage to meet the woman’s gaze for more than a moment. “I… please. I w-want…”

Somehow, that lacklustre performance was enough to meet the woman’s approval. She groaned under her breath, the low sound something Zaya felt more than heard, even as the woman’s thick fingers invaded her aching cunt.

Zaya couldn’t help but arch into the swift, harsh movements. It was nearly too good to bear. Three of the woman’s fingers stretched her painfully, but the stroke of them inside her was a sweet torment, a torture Zaya sought again and again with the frantic movement of her hips.

Her crisis struck her dumb, left her shivering and clenching around those clever fingers. The woman laughed atop her, and pressed her down even harder against the bed, and inserted a fourth finger, persisting despite Zaya’s protesting sobs. The woman’s movements slowed, but she kept on stroking that same maddening place, her fingers twisting in and out, her other hand, pinching Zaya’s aching clit, and soon Zaya was shuddering again, writhing, helpless beneath a wave of terrible pleasure.

“Give me your hand,” the woman said, some moments later. Zaya, muddleheaded and limp, failed to respond, but that seemed no bar to the woman, who boldly sought out and seized hold of Zaya’s hand. She shifted a little ways off, and the telltale rustle and clink of a belt being unbuckled was Zaya’s only warning before she felt her hand being brought up between the woman’s thighs.

“Stop,” she tried to say, but her voice was barely a whisper, and anyway the woman hadn’t listened to her before. She had no strength to pull back. She felt the brush of soft cloth– drawers? And then the distinct feeling of another woman’s nether hair, and wetness. “ _Stop_.”

“All you need to do is give me a little rub,” the woman said, coaxingly, her voice thick, her hand an iron grip, keeping Zaya’s hand where it was despite her weak attempt to pull away. “You can do that much, can’t you?”

Zaya sobbed. She didn’t know why this, of all things, made her feel so soiled. Why giving in, turning her trembling hand so her palm was better able to rub the other woman’s… parts… felt like an utter surrender. It was strange. She didn’t expect that the woman would feel so soft there too, so vulnerable, even after she’d forced Zaya into this, into allowing herself to be so roughly used.

“That’s it,” the woman said, her voice dark. “Pinch me again.” Zaya, shivering, did as she was told. “Try a finger or two. It won’t hurt me– harder. _Yes._ ”

The woman began to move against Zaya then, sinking down on her fingers. She still held Zaya’s wrist, but her grip had slackened, and her head had dropped onto Zaya’s left shoulder, and all Zaya could think of was how very tight she felt. How much pleasure she was wringing from Zaya’s unsteady stroke.

“Pinch me again,” the woman gasped, and Zaya found herself moving her other hand up to do it. “Oh, that’s right. That’s my sweet little whore. That– faster–”

Zaya shut her eyes tight, and told herself she was only obeying, only trying to get it over with. She tried not to think of how wicked it felt, how the woman had become slick and yielding and hot, but she couldn’t help herself.

Was this what the woman had felt, on the bus, when she slipped that first finger deep into Zaya’s cunt?

“Oh!” The woman shook, and shook again, rocking down to meet the steady thrust of Zaya’s fingers again and again and again. By the time the woman was satisfied, Zaya’s wrist had an imprint from her bruising grip. “Come here, give me that.”

Zaya, confused, opened her eyes just in time for the woman to bring her shaky, sticky fingers up between them. “What– oh!”

The woman’s eyelids lowered, her fierce gaze drinking in Zaya’s shock even as she sucked Zaya’s fingers into her mouth, licking them clean of her own juices. “Better?”

Zaya could only mutely nod. There had to be something wrong with her for feeling just a little disappointed when the woman pulled away, letting her hand drop down to the bed. “Can… you said you’d send me home?” Much as she didn’t _want_ to rely on the woman’s help in that, she was also well aware that it must be even later now, and that having the woman wait with her at the omnibus stop would be much safer.

The woman, already rebuckling her trousers, shot her a brief, smug smirk. “You’d trust me with that?”

Zaya, struggling to sit up, couldn’t help but flush. She couldn’t help but feel bitterly lucky that her skin didn’t darken much because of that; she didn’t want to gift the woman with any clearer signs of her embarrassment. “I’d trust you to get me onto an omnibus,” she made herself say, coolly. “Are you willing?”

“Who wouldn’t be, for such a little peach?” The woman, grinning, advanced on her, and though Zaya tried to avoid it, she found herself pinned to the bed, the woman’s hands fondling her half-bare breasts. “Well worth the money.”

“I don’t need your poxy money,” Zaya said, through gritted teeth, and did her best to wriggle away.

Hours later, while she was stripping out of her slightly rumpled clothes as quickly as possible, Zaya found that her pantaloons were listing strangely. A search of her right pocket revealed the dull, heavy weight of two gold imperials, wrapped in a twist of well-made parchment with a note scrawled onto it.

_Good night, my sweet peach,_ the note read. _I’ll find you tomorrow._

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write f/f chikan for a while now, so naturally seized on the FFA kinkmeme as an excuse to do so. Would love to know how you liked it :D


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